


Pittura

by psalloacappella



Series: Equilibrium [9]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Conspiracy, Everyone is obsessed with team 7, F/M, Post-War, Sai forays into watercolor paints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 22:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psalloacappella/pseuds/psalloacappella
Summary: Words flow from his lips, muffled in her hair. “Speak in whispers. Everything has ears.”





	Pittura

**Author's Note:**

> Ino deserves happiness, fight me, and maybe also something slightly more canon-compliant even though NaruIno romance and also picking-on-friends-friendship is my wheelhouse. Sai being a watercolor painter is my canon. Everyone being obsessed with Team 7's BS and also talking shit about them is also my canon.

This is the way it usually goes.

One of them sitting at the water’s edge, idly painting, while the other works herself into the angry rant she’s been wanting to let fly for days, words stitching themselves together without end. There’s scarcely time for her to breathe, but that’s unimportant when Ino has something to talk about; there’s no time for that when the wheels start turning, temper flaring. He’s learned the best thing to do is to let it tumble out on its own, in rapid-fire hypothetical questions she doesn’t want answered and angry appeals to entities that don’t exist. 

Pausing to gaze at the horizon, where the sun is bending colors over the curvature of the earth, he holds his brush aloft, musing against the backdrop of –

“—can’t believe he _talked_ to you that way, who does he think he is –“

The brush strokes quietly scratch against the paper. Sai pauses, turns the canvas ninety degrees, and frowns.

“—then Naruto and I go over there to get the truth out of them, because they’re both so stubborn sometimes and then we catch them, just, oh my god Sai, all up in each other like—”

Now he frowns for a different reason. She’s never been one to spare the lurid details. 

_Hmm . . . more purple? Colors can be difficult. _

“—now they’re not even talking, can you believe it? They’re just so _weird_—”

Struggling to concentrate on the best blend of oranges, pinks, and purples, Sai angles his body toward the sunset in a vain attempt to connect with the view, as if opening mind and soul to it would yield the perfect painting. He would never, in a thousand years, dare to interrupt her mid-tirade, and he’s also trying to make sure to listen. It’s important to do at least that even if you have nothing to offer to the one-sided conversation.

“—especially since it’s clear he lied to protect her from—what?”

Sai’s on his feet, waving the canvas as if he’s drying the paint, but instead flaps it in her direction, eyes wide. “Ino, don’t.”

A small muscle in her cheek twitches, once, almost like a surprised tic. She’s hardly ever interrupted while on her rollercoaster of words and it’s clear she had no intention of running out of steam anytime soon. Her chest swells as she inhales, ready to dish out damage, until she sees the hard, serious look on his face. Wilts a little. His eyes slowly take a lap, scan the area, and she knows his ears are listening too; for footsteps or rustles or anyone that shouldn’t be there. Still with that pinched, concerned expression. 

He beckons her over, canvas in hand, and opens his arm in a wide arc to welcome her in. She nestles right into the cocoon of his embrace, and he pulls her closer, gently. A beat. Two.

“You’re getting better at this,” she murmurs. He’s not sure if she means the affection or the watercolors.

Words flow from his lips, muffled in her hair. “Speak in whispers. Everything has ears.” 

For a moment she looks unfocused, wrong-footed, emotions halting abruptly while they still reverberate in her head, the clanging aftermath of clashing cymbals. She clears her throat and smiles broadly, but her words are quiet. “And who do you think is listening?”

Pulling away a bit, he brings the canvas between their bodies under the guise of showing her what he’s been working on. If someone was watching, they would see her giggling at his less-than-stellar application of color. His voice is nearly lost in the tides crashing against the rocky shore. “There are people who are not happy with these events. That he’s been forgiven and that he’s here. There are a lot of whispers. We have to be careful.”

“Don’t do this.” A low hiss in response. “Don’t speak in riddles.”

“You all received the warning,” he murmurs through a smile. “There’s people working on rooting out the problems. Things are never at peace. What we’ve declared during questioning is the truth, so there’s no reason to worry.” 

She’s discomfited by how easily it rolls off the tongue, how the more an event or memory in your mind is redressed, it becomes so comfortable. Like the truth. Like a gifted sweater from an old friend, always fitting just the right way when it’s worn even after quite some time. Another layer. No matter how the story would be told on parchment, the truth would always be darker, fleshier, stranger. Ino thought about the curfews, that he was never left alone, and so, so many impromptu questionings. Temari’s signal. The faint, niggling feeling of being watched. For some reason all of them were always in and around each other, wound so tightly in a pattern that had not a single stitch out of place, never letting anything else in. They weren’t the first team in history to be odd, difficult, deviant, famous, but—

“He’s trying to protect her. I understand, because I’m trying to do this for you as well.” Sai’s tone is cheerful. 

“I won’t be intimidated by Shinobi in my own village,” she growls. “And I don’t care what they think. Are we still in the red?”

A heavy sigh, and he bends down to brush dust and debris off his knees from the hours spent outside. “Yes. Light topics only, no large gatherings. Kakashi and I are working on things.”

“Yeah, all right,” she huffs. Twirling out and away from his embrace, a sigh escapes. She steps over the boulders and begins to head back toward the village. He trails not far behind, turning his canvas again to look at it from a different angle.

“So . . . what are you and Naruto always doing?”

“Am I still allowed to gossip?”

“About light topics, yes.”

“Well, Naruto almost proposed to me in a panic because he’s clueless, my close friends are basically on house and hospital arrest, so into each other it’s honestly gross, Hinata’s pining, Shikamaru’s bored—”

“Wait, what was the first one?”

“—and the rest of the village basically hates that we saved the world and brought some peace and wants to ruin what we’ve got—”

“Beautiful, if you could revisit the first thing you said . . .”


End file.
